


Café Ole

by harinezumi_kun



Category: Arashi (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-01
Updated: 2010-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-08 07:06:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harinezumi_kun/pseuds/harinezumi_kun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>nino is a struggling song-writer who works part time at a coffee shop. ohno buys his coffee there. romance abounds!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> the funny thing is, i don't even like coffee :p (does nino drink coffee? i don't even know *fail* he probably does...) this started out as just a coffee shop au thing, but then i heard the song [Hey Delilah](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h_m-BjrxmgI) for the first time in a long time, and an idea sprang from that and sort of attached itself to this fic. but that doesn't come in till later. anyway, read on ~

**_this is the setting._ **

The café is small and unassuming from the outside. It is glass fronted, with one of the only non-automatic doors left in Tokyo. There are a few metal tables and chairs—pushed out of the way now that it’s winter—some window-box flowers, and a chalk board sign with the daily specials. The round, friendly lettering in the window reads “Café Ole”. It’s a terrible pun, but the regular customers have gotten over it for the most part.

Inside, the shop is equally modest. There are barely a dozen seats, including the small bar that faces out at one of the large front windows. One wall is occupied by three small booths, and a half-hearted attempt at Spanish- or maybe Mexican-inspired decoration (the focal point being a large, festive sombrero). The other side of the café is mostly taken up by the check-out counter and the espresso machine.

But what Nino loves most about the café are the sounds. The soft jingle of the bell over the door. The slide and scrape of chairs being pulled up to tables. The quiet clinking of plates, and the more solid _thunk_ of heavy ceramic mugs as they are set down. Low voices, tinny strains of music barely heard from someone’s cheap headphones, and above all, the rumble and hiss of the espresso machine.

These are the greater part of the melodies of his life as a struggling song-writer in Tokyo, a familiar and comforting background to the more harsh and dissonant tones of the city itself. And the people who surround him in this little oasis add their own particular harmonies to the larger composition—high, bright tones come in on the sound of Aiba’s laughter; a low, concerned strain when Sho sees a customer drop crumbs on his nice clean floor. And there is one sound that Nino hears at Café Ole that he has come to love above all others. 

It happens everyday, always sometime between nine and eleven o’clock After a quick staccato ring from the bell, comes the sound of distinctive shuffling footsteps, and an off-key but endearing hum.

_**these are the supporting characters.** _

“I know the manager,” Aiba had said conspiratorially, “I can totally get us jobs.”

Nino wasn’t so sure, but Aiba was the only person he knew in Tokyo—they had grown up together, and Aiba had even offered to let Nino crash at his place until he got his own—so he had to trust him.

Sho, however, was not that excited to have the two of them show up just before the end of his shift with no references, no experience, and uncombed hair. Nino wanted to know what his hair had to do with anything, but Sho just “hmmm”ed vaguely.

But Aiba, fortunately, didn’t know how to take “no” for an answer. Against Sho’s better judgment, they started the next day. On the condition that they brushed their hair and ironed their shirts before they came in.

Jun was another matter. Nino still wonders why someone with as much money as Jun buys his coffee at a place like Café Ole anyway (“Caffeine addiction,” Aiba whispers sagely). 

It was obvious the first day Jun came in that he had more money than sense—the tailored suit jacket, patent leather shoes, and shiny Rolex gave him away in about five seconds. Once he became a regular and started hanging around Nino’s end of the espresso bar, the story came out pretty quickly. While Nino is paying his rent by working at Café Ole and picking up odd night shifts at manga cafes and karaoke parlors, Jun has decided to pay his way though college by working at a host club. How he manages to be one of the most popular hosts at Club Storm _and_ a straight-A student, Nino will never understand. 

But he eventually becomes an almost permanent fixture next to the espresso machine, and their exchanges always go something like this:

On an anyday, between nine and eleven o’clock, Nino peeks quickly around the side of the espresso machine, then ducks back again before he can be seen spying. But a smile pulls at his lips at the sight of the familiar sun-browned face that just shuffled in. He’s carrying a portfolio today—shiny, black, and far too big to really be allowed in such a tiny shop—and his fingers are smudged black with charcoal. At least, Nino assumes it’s charcoal. Knowing nothing about art, he can only guess.

Jun, who is lounging around at the end of the counter, follows Nino’s stolen glance. He turns back around with a smug grin.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Americano-kun. Are you going to confess today?”

“Shut it,” Nino snaps back. First of all, he hates the nickname (Aiba came up with it, of course), and second of all he doesn’t want Jun to be overheard talking about confessions. “Don’t you have a street corner someplace where you can hassle people?”

“Hai, hai,” Jun returns, shrugging off Nino’s jibes. “I know where I’m not wanted. See you later.”

“Joke’s on you,” Nino mutters to himself with a wicked grin. “Enjoy your _decaf_.”

His vindictive gloating is interrupted by the sharp tap of the paper cup Aiba has set down next to his machine. The tall, shaggy-haired cashier gives him a 200-watt grin and an exaggerated wink, and Nino picks up the cup with a skeptical frown.

The cup is marked, as usual, for a plain Americano, but this time Aiba has filled all the extra custom boxes with little hearts. Nino glares at his friend, then pointedly throws the graffitied cup in the trash before reaching around to get a new one.

“Spoil sport,” Aiba mutters, then turns his smile to the next customer.

Nino ignores him and re-marks the cup before starting the drink.

_**this is how they meet.** _

It was a Tuesday, Nino’s first ever opening shift, and he was exhausted from having gotten up six hours earlier than he was used to. It had taken him and Sho an hour just to get the café ready to open, and then they had had to deal with the morning rush immediately afterwards. 

It was nine o’clock, the last stragglers of the rush were just clearing out, and Nino was promising himself that he would never, _ever_ work the opening shift again. He didn’t even notice the sandy-haired newcomer enter the store, even though he was carrying a fishing pole and wearing a hat covered in fluorescent fishing lures.

It wasn’t until Nino set the cup down and wearily called out “Grande Americano!” that he even saw the stranger. He took in the man’s odd attire with a quick glance, and was about to go back to drink-making when he realized the man wasn’t moving. Just standing there with his hand on the cup, looking at Nino. Fearing there was something wrong with the drink, Nino met the man’s eyes reluctantly.

But the stranger just smiled and said a soft “thank you”.

Maybe it was because it was the first “thank you” he had received all morning. Maybe it was the smile. Whatever it was, Nino found himself requesting morning shifts for the rest of the week.

After that, he saw the man almost everyday. The fisherman ensemble proved to be a rare occurrence. Usually it was T-shirts and jeans, and every now and then a nice suit that always looked too big and slightly wrinkled. Eventually, Nino saw the sketchbooks the man carried, noticed the paint and ink smears on his hands (and sometimes face), and determined that he was an artist. Nino wanted to say “An artist, huh? Me too! Well, I write music” but it sounded stupid in his head, like every conversation-starter he thought up. Inevitably, the only words they ever exchanged were “thank you”.

_**and this is how it goes.** _

A year later, and Nino still hasn’t worked up the nerve to speak to him. The espresso shots finally finish pouring, and Nino fills the rest of the cup with hot water. He adds a sleeve and a lid to the Americano and pokes his head around the espresso machine to set down the drink.

“Thank you,” the man says in the same soft way, with the same soft smile.

Nino smiles back, opens his mouth to say something, _anything_ but…

“Thank you,” he returns, and watches the other man—still, after all, a stranger—leave the café.

It’s only when Sho clears his throat loudly right next to Nino’s ear that Nino realizes he has a line of cups forming next to his machine and snaps back to reality.

He returns to his work with a mumbled apology, and sighs quietly to himself. At the very least, he wishes he could think of a non-awkward way to ask “What’s your name?”


	2. Part II

**_and then one day…_ **

The café has just closed for the night, and Sho gathers the handful of employees around one of the booths. Tohma, the assistant manager, and the rest of the night crew are stretching and rolling their shoulders after a long shift, while Nino and Aiba blink sleepily—Aiba because it’s almost his bedtime, and Nino because he just woke up from his between-jobs nap. 

“First, good job today, everyone,” Sho begins officiously, with a quick nod for his staff. “Thank you all for coming to the meeting. This is just a brief announcement about a new policy from the owner—”

A handful of groans interrupts Sho mid-sentence, and he frowns disapprovingly while adjusting his papers.

“As I was saying,” he starts again, loudly, “the owner has a new policy he would like us to use, starting tomorrow.” Sho looks down at the clipboard he’s holding and begins to read what sounds like an official memo. “In order to create a more personal atmosphere for our customers, we will now be asking customer names, and call these out instead of the drink name. This will also help to reduce mistakes during pick up, and improve our relationship with our regular customers…”

The announcement is followed by a certain amount of grumbling, from which Nino’s voice is conspicuously absent. Aiba, however, seems to have reached the same conclusion as Nino, and is looking excitedly over at the younger man almost before Sho has finished speaking. Nino counts himself lucky that Aiba refrains from saying anything until they have all said their goodbyes and are a good distance away from the café.

“Nino, this is great!” Aiba crows, shaking Nino by the shoulders to emphasize his point. “Now you’ll finally be able to talk to him!”

“Uh, no,” Nino counters, shrugging off his over-enthusiastic friend. “Just because you know someone’s name doesn’t mean you can just start a conversation with them.”

“But it could be a great ice-breaker,” Aiba insists. He jogs to catch up to Nino, who has started stalking off towards the train station. “I bet he has a really interesting name, too! Trust me, it’ll be great.”

“Whatever,” Nino mutters. But he can’t stop the little hopeful flutter in his stomach, thinking about tomorrow morning.

_**this is when it almost happened.** _

“Matsumoto?” Nino says again, incredulously.

Jun snatches his latte from Nino with an annoyed “ch”. “Yes, Matsumoto. What about it?”

“It’s just…so…average,” Nino replies, barely suppressing his grin. “I thought surely _you_ , a charming, wealthy, stylish top host—”

“There’s nothing wrong with my name,” Jun cuts him off. “It’s better than Ninomiya, anyway. Who ever heard of a pop-star called Ninomiya?”

“I don’t write _pop_ ,” Nino scowls. “Just for that, I demand that you get out of my shop.”

“Why don’t you make me—” Jun begins, just as Sho returns from wiping down tables.

“No problems, right, gentlemen?” Sho asks, with a pointed look at Jun’s leather-clad foot, which is just about to cross into the strictly non-customer territory behind the counter.

“ _Your_ barista—” Jun starts, but is cut off again by Sho.

“Oh, knock it off, Jun-kun, you know Nino just likes to push your buttons.”

Jun opens his mouth to protest, but apparently decides against it, and snaps his jaw shut again with a click. “Hai, hai,” he says, effecting a nonchalant air as he steps back. “Well, see you later. Say hello to your boyfriend for me,”

Nino is contemplating throwing one of the little espresso mugs at Jun’s head when he catches Sho’s eye.

“And Nino,” the manager sighs, “do try not to antagonize Jun too much. He is a very loyal customer, and half of the women who shop here only come in because of him. We’ll lose a lot of business if you piss him off.”

“You got it, boss,” Nino grumbles, with a mock salute. Though he’s sure Sho catches the sarcasm in his tone, the other man just smiles and ruffles Nino’s hair before going to take orders.

Almost an hour later, Nino is in the middle of a multiple drink order, and almost doesn’t hear the familiar shuffling footsteps enter the café. But Aiba, helpful as ever, gives a very loud and exaggerated cough, just in time for Nino to look up and see “Americano-kun” sidling up to the cash register.

Aiba gives his usual over-the-top greeting and then takes the order. Nino tries not to make it too obvious when he shuts off the steam wand just in time to hear the man give his name as “Ohno”.

So naturally, the cup Aiba sets down next to the espresso machine has “Ohno” (written in Japanese and English characters) scrawled across it as large as Aiba can manage, with several exclamation points for good measure. Nino throws the cup away and gets a new one.

A minute later, he leans around the espresso machine with the drink in hand.

“Ohno-san, Americano, right?” he says, trying to keep his smile low-key and not creepy.

“Oh, yeah,” the man replies, seeming surprised that Nino knows his name even though he gave it freely to Aiba a few minutes ago. “Thanks.”

“Thank you,” Nino replies, feeling a little disappointed.

_**and this is when it did.** _

The café is full, every seat occupied and a line almost out the door. Nino takes up an entire booth by propping his feet on the opposite bench and pointedly ignoring the glares Sho is throwing in his direction. He is perfectly content to spend the last twenty minutes of his break taking up too much space and killing monsters on his DS until he realizes someone is standing next to his table. He almost decides to ignore them, too, until they clear their throat awkwardly and a too-familiar voice speaks up.

“Um…do you mind if I sit here?”

Nino’s head snaps around fast enough to put a crick in his neck. Ohno looks down in concern when the sudden movement makes Nino wince.

“Yes, sure, fine,” Nino says quickly, gesturing the bench across from him. Ohno smiles, but then hesitates, and Nino realizes he still has his feet propped up. He pulls his knees up too quickly and slams them into the underside of the table with a muffled thump.

“Are you okay?” Ohno chuckles as he finally takes a seat.

“Yup. Just fine,” Nino mutters, rubbing his kneecaps surreptitiously under the table. He quickly takes in Ohno’s appearance—a well-worn trucker’s cap, nappy T-shirt, backpack held together with duct tape—and the gooey cinnamon bun he’s set down on the table.

“Oh,” he says before he can stop himself. When Ohno eyes him curiously, he finishes lamely: “It’s just…you don’t usually get any food…um…” 

_And I’m not a creepy stalker, really_ , he adds, mentally kicking himself.

Ohno just nods and smiles serenely. 

As Nino is wondering if it would be completely rude to just keep playing his game, Ohno breaks the moment of silence around a mouthful of cinnamon bun.

“So this’s your part-time job, huh? You a student or something?”

“What? Ah, no, I…um…work some other jobs, too, and—” _You sound like an idiot. Stop talking. Please._ “—and, you know, write songs sometimes.”

“Eh, really?” Ohno’s tone is all sincerity. “That’s really cool. Do you sing in the park and stuff? Cool.”

Nino shakes his head bashfully. Emboldened by Ohno’s apparent lack of any kind of discomfort to be talking to a complete stranger, Nino makes a stab at conversation. “You’re an artist, right?”

“Yeah,” Ohno answers, sounding touched that Nino even noticed. “Nothing special. I just do it for fun, really.”

“You’re that bad, huh?” The quip is out of Nino’s mouth before he really knows what he’s saying, and for a split second he’s terrified that he’s mortally insulted the other man, an apology on the tip of his tongue.

But, after a pause, Ohno just laughs, and stuffs more cinnamon roll in his mouth. 

“I’m Ohno, by the way,” he says a moment later. “But I guess you knew that. Ohno Satoshi.”

“Ninomiya Kazunari. But you can just call me ‘Nino’.”

“Oh. That’s a cute nickname. I don’t have one.” Ohno frowns a little to himself, and Nino can feel a baffled but delighted grin creeping onto his face.

“Oh-chan,” Nino says decisively. “How’s that?”

Ohno thinks if over for a moment, chewing thoughtfully.

“Good,” he says finally, smiling. “I like it.”


	3. Part III

It’s not long before Ohno has become almost as permanent a fixture in Café Ole as Jun. Somehow (and Nino will swear up and down that it’s pure coincidence), Nino’s breaks keep falling just around the time Ohno walks through the door. Some days he just grabs a coffee and goes, but some days he stays, and those stolen half-hours become the highlights of Nino’s week. 

And he’s happy, because being with Ohno is easy. His nervousness melts away, and they just talk. Sometimes they talk about the important things, things they love like art and music (and fishing and gaming, but these conversations never last _too_ long as there is only ever one interested party either way). Sometimes they talk about stupid things, like why beige is funny, and if it would be possible to change your underwear without taking off your pants. Sometimes they just sit, and Nino plays his DS and Ohno sketches or reads fishing magazines, and they both have their feet propped on the opposite bench.

Eventually, Ohno just starts sitting on the same side of the table as Nino. This may or may not have started when Nino insisted on showing Ohno some card tricks that he knew (“Now, scoot over, ‘cause you have to watch _very_ closely”).

But it’s not only Nino—Aiba and Jun (and Sho, though he’ll never admit it) are all interested in “Americano-kun”. Jun has no shame, _Or respect for others’ privacy_ , Nino thinks, and saunters right over to Nino and Ohno’s table more often than not, and inserts himself in their conversation. Aiba makes up for his inability to join these conversations by chatting up Ohno while he’s ordering, and once backed up the line for almost five minutes before Sho intervened. Sho, on the other hand, much more subtle than the other two, manages to pull Ohno aside on the pretext of getting customer feedback about the café and their customer service (Ohno falls for it).

It’s almost six months later before Nino realizes that he’s actually _friends_ with Ohno now, instead of just being someone who serves him coffee. He knows he ought to include Jun in this category as well, but prefers not to on principle. But nonetheless, the five of them seem to have become a unit—Aiba regularly takes them all out to eat (although someone else always ends up footing the bill); Nino gets them discounts at the karaoke parlor he works sometimes and they spend all night singing (badly and loudly); Jun takes them around to some of the trendier spots he knows, but these are usually too expensive for anyone but Jun to afford, and they end up at a somewhat less trendy bar or pub recommended by Sho.

And on the days when Nino has some free time to write, and to take his guitar out to a park or street corner at night, he finds the music he’s making is different than it used to be. Where he used to write slow, sad ballads about lost love and unfaithful lovers, now he’s writing sappy, sentimental love songs, and something that sounds suspiciously like the pop music Jun has always accused him of writing. But, really, he doesn’t care. It makes him happy to sing these songs, just like his life now makes him happy. Just like his friends—especially Ohno—make him happy.

One day, Nino and Ohno are seated in their usual booth during Nino’s break. The café is empty for once, only one or two other customers at the bar. Sho is dusting the menu boards for the fifth time in an hour, and Aiba is trying to construct a Rube Goldberg machine from paper clips, rubber bands, and empty cups. Ohno apparently had a late night at a party celebrating his recent gallery opening, and is stealing a few moments of sleep against Nino’s shoulder. 

While the older man snores softly, Nino scribbles notes across a blank score, humming to himself as he works out the melody. He’s so intent on what he’s doing, he barely notices when Ohno finally stirs.

“That new?” Ohno says through a yawn. He drags himself upright and stretches expansively.

“Mm,” Nino answers, distracted.

“When do I get to hear your songs?” Ohno asks with a note of petulance. “You keep saying ‘later, later’, but I _still_ haven’t heard a single one.”

Nino hunches over his paper and shifts his shoulders guiltily. “Well, it’s just…it’s embarrassing, you know?”

“But you sing them for other people all the time!”

“Yeah, but those are just strangers…”

“Hmph.” Ohno pouts for a moment, then digs around in his pocket, eventually coming up with a crumpled business card. “Here.”

Nino takes the proffered card curiously—it has the name and information for an art gallery downtown.

“Come and see my show,” Ohno says by way of explanation. “That’s a fair trade, right? You get to see my art, and then I get to hear your music.”

“Oh,” Nino replies. Ohno seems to think that’s settled the matter, but Nino’s wondering if there isn’t some way to worm out of this.

As comfortable he has become with Ohno in the café, and during their outings with the others, there’s something about seeing Ohno outside of that close, familiar context that makes Nino nervous. Part of him doesn’t want to know about the rest of Ohno’s life, and to find out what a small and insignificant part of it he really is.

At that moment, the bell over the door jingles, and Jun enters. He takes in the scene with a smirk, orders a latte, and saunters over to Nino and Ohno’s table. Before Nino has even had a chance to say “hello”, Jun has snatched the business card out of his hand.

“What’s this, what’s this?” he says, ignoring Nino’s indignant shout. “An art gallery? Ohno-san, did your show finally open? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I forgot,” Ohno shrugs. “But I remembered just now when I was talking to Nino. I’m trying to get him to come.”

Jun slides into the opposite bench and throws the card back across the table at Nino. “Nino doesn’t have any taste, I’m sure he wouldn’t appreciate it at all. But I’ll be sure to come,” and the host has a far-too suggestive wink for the older man. Nino kicks him under the table.

“I wanna come, too!” Aiba shouts, leaning over the counter and scattering his partly assembled construction.

“Aiba, don’t yell,” Sho scolds. “Why don’t we all go?”

For some reason, everyone then turns to Nino for the final decision. He’s a bit miffed at how quickly his personal invitation to Ohno’s show has become a big group activity, and how it’s somehow worked out that if he says “no” that makes him the biggest jerk in the room.

“Yeah, okay,” he says with a sigh. “We’ll all go.”

He feels a little better when he sees Ohno’s beatific smile.

***

The gallery is dimly lit, and full of people and the buzz of low conversation like the hum of bees. Nino feels incredibly awkward in a suit jacket that’s too big (Jun insisted they all dress up), and at first he can’t see Ohno anywhere. After a moment, the crowd parts, and Nino spots Ohno across the room, in the middle of a group of people. The other man seems to be letting the smartly dressed woman next to him do all the talking, and doesn’t notice their arrival until Aiba starts waving excitedly.

Ohno gives them all a drive by greeting, already being pulled along by the woman he’s with—his agent, or publicist, or whatever it is artist’s have—but before he’s gone, he places a hand on Nino’s shoulder and leans in to speak close to the younger man’s ear.

“I drew a picture of you,” Ohno whispers, sending chills straight down to Nino’s toes. “See if you can find it.”

Luckily, Jun and Aiba and Sho have already wandered ahead into the gallery, and missed the whispered exchange, or Nino is sure he’d be hearing about it for the rest of the night.

They wander through the show for nearly an hour. It’s not an especially large exhibit, only two rooms of drawings and figures, but the crowd alone is enough to keep them moving slowly. At first, all Nino feels is the awkwardness, and the lingering thrill of feeling Ohno’s breath warm against his ear. But as the night goes on, he finds his consciousness shifting outward to focus on Ohno’s artwork. It’s a little baffling for him to imagine quiet, laid-back, clueless Ohno creating all these odd drawings and funny little figurines. Nino doesn’t try to understand their deeper meaning (and he has a sneaking suspicion Ohno didn’t really have any subliminal messages in mind when he made all this), he just takes everything in. When he finds himself back where he started, he realizes he never saw a picture of himself.

As Jun makes a show of staring thoughtfully as several pieces, Sho and Aiba sidle casually over to the refreshments table, and Nino begins his tour of the gallery all over again. He examines each picture and sculpture critically, trying to find himself in the fine lines and exaggerated facial expressions, but nothing seems to fit. He’s almost given up, until he sees, tucked away in a corner almost like an afterthought, a tiny canvas with a drawing of a hedgehog crawling out of an overturned teacup.

Without really knowing why, Nino knows in an instant that this is the picture Ohno was talking about. The teacup is cracked, faded yellow, and if Nino looks closely, he could swear there is a tiny smirk on the hedgehog’s face. He doesn’t get it. But he loves it.

Later, when the gallery is closing for the night, and almost everyone else has left, Nino finally gets Ohno alone. Nino is loitering outside, and watches Ohno finally detach himself from his manager as they leave the building. He waits as Ohno comes closer, then falls easily into step with the older man, slinging a casual arm over his shoulders as they make their way to the train station.

“Good job tonight.”

“Thanks.” A jaw-cracking yawn. “God, I’m tired.”

They walk on in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Nino feels a new song coming on, and hums quietly to himself.

“So, did you find it?” Ohno asks finally.

Nino nods. “It was the hedgehog, right?”

“Yup,” and Ohno smiles, looking proud of himself.

“Why a hedgehog?”

Ohno contemplates this quietly, letting Nino lead him as they turn a corner. “Because Nino is a hedgehog. Prickly on the outside, but soft underneath.”

“Eh? Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“It’s a good thing for Nino,” Ohno says decisively, then turns to look at his companion. “And now I get to hear your music, right?”

Nino sighs, but he’s too caught up in the warm feeling that’s wormed it’s way into his chest to protest. “I suppose that’s fair. Here—” He takes a crumpled scrap of paper out of his pocket. “This is where I’ll be singing tomorrow night. Can you come?”

Ohno peers at the hand-written directions with a triumphant kind of a grin. “Definitely.”


	4. Part IV

Nino sleeps till noon the next day, and takes his time getting ready, eating breakfast (or maybe it’s technically lunch), and finally leaving the house. He knows it’s going to be late in the day, probably well into the evening, before Ohno will be able to make his way to Nino’s out-of-the-way street corner, so he gives himself as little time as possible to wait.

Even so, the day goes by slowly. He sets up his little stool outside the station he’s chosen for today, props his guitar case open in front of him, and plays. He doesn’t bring any sheets—he has all of his songs memorized—and breaks the time up into sets of about two hours each. Mostly, he sings his own music, or occasionally plays just instrumental pieces, sometimes mixing in covers of popular songs or old music that he likes. Once it gets dark, he breaks for dinner, making the trip to the convenience store across the street as quickly as possible, on the off chance that Ohno comes early.

It’s nearing 10p.m. and Ohno still hasn’t shown up. Nino doesn’t dismiss the idea that the other man might have forgotten, and tries not to be too disappointed. People come and go regularly from the station entrance, and for the moment, Nino has gathered a small audience—a business man who is checking his cellphone and feigning disinterest, a middle-aged housewife on a bike, and a pair of highschool girls giving him hopeful and flirtatious glances. On a whim, Nino begins the song he wrote last night, after the art show—he titled it “Paradise”.

_Just you and me, let’s go—hand in hand, across a rainbow._

He glances up as he finishes the first line, and suddenly, Ohno is there. He’s standing a little behind the girls, watching Nino with a surprised kind of a smile. 

Nino feels his cheeks start to color, but keeps singing determinedly. His eyes keep straying to Ohno, though, and eventually he has to squeeze them shut and sing to the backs of his eyelids. 

The song, Nino finally admits to himself, is for Ohno. That the other man should show up just in time for it only solidifies the idea in Nino’s mind. _Being with you feels good_ , he sings, _being with you feels right._ He wonders if Ohno will understand, and can’t decide if he wants him to or not.

_Because I’ll always be beside you; because this is our paradise._

The song ends on a long, soulful note, and there is over-excited applause from the teenage girls afterwards. Nino risks a glance at Ohno, but can’t read the look on the other man’s face. Ohno’s smile has faded to a look of deep concentration, and he’s just staring without seeming to realize the song is over. Nino forces himself to sing three more pieces—and this time he sticks to covers—until packing his things up for the night. The girls are very disappointed when Nino walks right past them, but start to giggle to each other when they see him make a bee-line for Ohno.

The older man is still looking kind of dazed when Nino approaches him. 

“Hi,” Nino says, waving a hand in front of Ohno’s face. “Was it that bad?”

Ohno shakes himself out of his stupor, but still has a little furrow between his brows. “No, no, it was really good.”

“But…?”

“But…I just never knew that Nino was so…deep.”

“Deep…” Nino stares at Ohno incredulously. And then he finds himself laughing—at his own idiocy, and Ohno’s unfailing cluelessness. “Whatever you say, Oh-chan.”

“But it was!” Ohno insists, as they begin to walk down the street. “That song you were singing before, you must really care about that person a lot.”

Nino can only shake his head and smile. “You’re right. I do.”

“That’s nice,” Ohno says quietly, and again Nino can’t read his face or his tone. After a moment of silence, Ohno perks up. “You should write a song about me.” When he sees Nino’s startled face, he continues. “Since I drew a picture of you, you know.”

“You drew a picture of a hedgehog,” Nino answers wryly. “Should I write you a song called ‘Sloth’?”

“I’m not a sloth! I always thought I was kind of like a rabbit.”

“Why?”

“I dunno, that’s just what I thought. Anyway, I’m not a sloth.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Whatever. Why don’t I just call it ‘Oh-chan’s Song’?”

Ohno grins, and reaches for Nino’s hand. The older man is almost never the one to initiate their physical contact, and when Ohno laces their fingers together, Nino feels his heart trying to burst out through his throat.

“That’s good,” Ohno says, and he seems to be fixing Nino with a particularly strong gaze. “That way, I’ll definitely know it’s for me.”

And suddenly, Nino doesn’t know what to think. Again comes the frightening feeling that there is so much more to Ohno than the little glimpses that Nino has seen, and that he’s missing something important by confining himself to the roles they have fallen into. But he doesn’t know how to change it without the danger of everything falling to pieces.

“Where are we going?” Ohno asks a little later. 

Nino knows what Ohno means—they’ve been wandering aimlessly for almost a quarter hour, both of them expecting the other to eventually take the lead. But somehow Nino finds himself answering a completely different question.

“I don’t know, Oh-chan. I really don’t know.”

***

“Why don’t you just ask him out?” Aiba asks, sounding exasperated.

“Can’t,” Nino answers simply, as he runs over a few more zombies in his ambulance. For stress relief, he thinks, this is probably the best video game he’s ever bought.

“Why not?” Aiba says, more frustrated still, enough to put down the issue of _Shonen Jump_ he’s flipping through.

“Don’t date guys,” Nino says, which is true. Admittedly, it’s been a while since he’s dated a girl, but that’s irrelevant at the moment.

“So start now,” Aiba suggests.

Zombies are splattered across Nino’s virtual windshield, and he mashes the buttons on his controller viciously. “Yeah, right. And I’ll bet Oh-chan will just suddenly decide to be gay, too, if I do.”

Aiba is nothing if not optimistic. “You never know.”

Nino decides that that statement doesn’t even deserve a reply, and the room is quiet for a few minutes except for the gurgling death cries of zombies and the idle flutter of magazine pages. Eventually, Nino speaks into the silence.

“Everything’s fine how it is,” he mutters, almost to himself. “I like things like this.”

Aiba just sighs. “Nino…” He looks up from his comics again, and Nino knows the other man is fixing him with a pitying stare. He refuses to return it. “Things aren’t going to stay like they are forever, you know. What if—”

“I know,” Nino interrupts, preferring to acknowledge it rather than hear the rest of the sentence voiced out loud. “I just…I’m not ready yet.”

Aiba sighs again, and starts fanning himself with his copy of _Jump_ instead of reading it. Even in the middle of June, Nino is too stingy to have his air conditioner on, but the breeze from the open balcony door does little more than stir the muggy air in the room. Nino appreciates that Aiba still comes over to hang out anyway.

“Just don’t wait too long,” Aiba says softly. The older man stretches himself across the floor so that one of his toes is just touching Nino’s ankle. Nino recognizes it as a gesture of sympathy, and closes his eyes briefly in thanks.

“I know,” he says again.

***

It is a Sunday, around eleven-thirty in the morning. The crowd in the café is middling—Sho is making drinks while Nino takes a break, and Jun is still waiting in line to order. Ohno and Nino are seated in their usual booth.

“I’m going to America,” Ohno says excitedly.

As if from a great distance, Nino sees himself plaster on a smile, and say in falsely cheerful tones. “That’s great!”


	5. Part V

It happens quickly.

Ohno makes his announcement in the café—he’s going to New York, it’s his manager’s idea. She thinks his work might find a more receptive audience in America or something like that. While she’s working on selling him, Ohno gets to work on his art, and study from other up-and-comings in the city. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be gone, it might be a couple weeks or a couple months, it all depends. But he’ll buy them all cool souvenirs, he promises.

Nino smiles and offers congratulations along with everyone else, hopes it doesn’t ring as hollowly to them as it does in his own ears. He sees the concerned looks Aiba throws him and ignores them.

“He’s not leaving for three days,” Aiba hisses, desperate, cornering Nino in the tiny employee break room as their shift ends. “You can tell him before he leaves, you _have_ to tell him—”

“No, I don’t,” Nino interrupts. He tries to dodge around Aiba and out the door, but the other man spreads his arms stubbornly.

“Come _on_ , Nino, if you just—”

“And then what?” Nino doesn’t wait for Aiba to finish. “And then he goes to America and we don’t talk for weeks or months or however long. It won’t work. Anyway, it’s not fair to dump that on him right before his trip.”

Aiba doesn’t seem to like the soundness of that piece of logic. “But…”

“No,” Nino says again, and manages to duck under Aiba’s arm and escape.

Three days go by like the flickering images of an old movie reel—they seem to go too fast, with whole hours just missing, cut from the film carelessly. Ohno’s flight leaves in the middle of the day, and everyone is working so no one gets to see him off. He sends Nino a text message from the terminal that just says _“I’m off!”_ Nino almost, _almost_ , deletes it, but in the end just snaps his phone shut on it with finality.

And that night, worried that he’ll spend far too much time sitting around missing Ohno if he stays at home, Nino takes his guitar and heads out. He goes to the biggest, most crowded train station entrance he can think of, letting the noise and the people and the lights drown out his own thoughts, and loses himself in his music for several hours.

The last thing he is expecting, as he is packing up, is for a man in a sleek black suit to approach him with an equally sleek business card bearing a name he immediately recognizes as a well-known music label.

“I like your sound, kid,” the man says, looking Nino up and down appraisingly. “Be at my office tomorrow at ten o’clock.”

All Nino can do is nod.

***

When Nino hands in his two-week notice, with an explanation, Sho’s expression is a hilarious mix of distress and happiness. He’s sad to see Nino go, but happy for him, and by the way can he train the new barista before he leaves?

Aiba is likewise conflicted at first, but eventually settles for being excited that Nino has finally hit the big time.

“I’m just signed on for a single release,” Nino says repressively, “I’m not famous yet.”

Nevertheless, Aiba starts calling him “Ninomiya-san” and asking for his autograph every five mintues.

Jun gets a start at being cockily nonchalant, but is soon thoroughly distracted by the new barista. Her name is Mao, she is tiny and dark haired, and has a sharp enough tongue to give even Nino a run for his money. Jun, apparently, is besotted. Nino thinks it’s disgusting.

“Mao-chan, this is delicious!” Jun says, sipping enthusiastically on the latte she just handed him.

Mao thanks him with a hesitant nod, and behind her head, Nino mimes vomiting into an empty cup.

“Jun-kun, shouldn’t you be getting to the club?” Nino then says sweetly, and both of Mao’s eyebrows go straight up.

“What club?” she asks, a dangerous edge to her voice.

Jun laughs nervously, makes a muddled excuse and hurries away, glaring at Nino over his shoulder as he goes.

When he’s not working through his last shifts at the café, Nino is with his new manager, Hashimoto-san, moving between the imposing office building downtown and a recording studio uptown. They go through meeting after meeting, apparently needing endless discussion to decide everything from which songs to put on the record, to what color and how long his hair will be on the CD cover. 

Meanwhile, packages begin to arrive from America. Aiba gets a stuffed elephant from the Bronx Zoo, and a postcard with a picture of a carousel that has bugs instead of horses. For Sho, an English book about economics (he’s in the final year of his econ major at Keio), though how Ohno had any idea what it was about much less believed Sho would ever be able to read it remains a mystery. Jun’s package contains a ridiculously large and gaudy pair of sunglasses, which he wears only once.

Nothing comes for Nino except an email to his phone asking, _“What do you want?”_

When he replies _“For you to come home”_ , Ohno just writes back _“Ha ha, yeah. I mean a souvenir.”_

Nino just answers, _“Whatever.”_

Eventually, Nino’s two weeks end, and he’s swept for well and good into his new career as a musician. In preparation for the single release there are interviews, some recorded for radio and websites, some for magazines; there are photoshoots, endless, stupid photoshoots where Nino is shuffled in and out of a dozen outfits he would never pick out on his own and is expected to care about his hair and complexion. And right to the very end there are negotiations and squabbling about the single itself. Apparently, Nino’s manager and whoever it is that immediately outranks him are in a disagreement about the song that will be paired with the title track.

Almost a month after the fateful night at the train station, Nino gets a text message from Aiba: _“He’s back!!!!!”_

Nino’s heart is racing, and he’s still processing the information, when he gets a second message: _“I’m home! And I got your souvenir. Can we meet up?”_

It’s too surreal. Nino can’t fit it into this reality where he’s sitting in an uncomfortably stylish chair in front of his manager’s desk while Hashimoto takes a phone call. He can’t imagine Ohno actually being back, being in the same country as him, much less the same city. Like Nino predicted, they’ve barely spoken in weeks, and Ohno seems like someone from another lifetime.

In the end, he keeps his reply short.

_“Welcome home~ Really busy right now, maybe after the single release.”_

He doesn’t remember that Ohno doesn’t know he got scouted until he’s checking his voicemail later.

“Congratulations,” Ohno’s voice crackles through the phone. “It’s awesome that you got signed. I guess you must be really busy, now, huh? Well, um, whenever you might have some free time, give me a call. Bye.”

Nino almost cries in the back of the taxi that’s driving him home. Which is stupid, he tells himself. He could call Ohno right now, he could probably find some time to meet up with the other man, even. But part of him doesn’t want to hear Ohno’s voice without being able to see him, doesn’t want to meet up with him knowing he’ll have less than an hour and then have to go without seeing him for days at a time. The possibilities of these little indulgences are almost worse than having him halfway around the world. It’s over, he tells himself. It never even started.

His replies to Ohno’s emails and messages remain brief and apologetic. Soon, communications become less frequent. Then they cease all together.

“He doesn’t come to the café anymore,” Aiba tells Nino one night. The older man, determined to keep tabs on Nino despite his friend’s best efforts at avoidance, had camped out in front of Nino’s door until he came home, and is now seated at the foot of Nino’s bed in his pajamas.

“Oh?” Nino replies, trying not to sound guilty. He’s lying back, staring at the ceiling. He has an early start tomorrow and should be asleep already.

“And he hardly even answers my text messages,” Aiba adds with a pout. “You were always closest to him, Nino. Couldn’t you…?”

Aiba doesn’t finish his sentence, knowing he’s treading in dangerous territory. But Nino doesn’t have the heart or the energy to get angry. 

“I wouldn’t know what to say,” Nino sighs. “Hi, welcome back. I missed you, and by the way I think I’m in love with you. Gotta run, busy schedule you know, but let’s chat later.”

Aiba’s eyes are wide when Nino glances at him. “You’re… _in love_ with him?”

“Oh, Christ,” Nino mutters, knowing he just uttered the two most dangerous words to use in front of Aiba. “Look, this isn’t some ‘true love conquers all’ thing, okay? Don’t go and—”

But it’s already too late. Aiba’s on his feet, making the bed bounce alarmingly. “That’s it! It _is_ true love, it’s got to be, and he feels the same way, that’s why he’s all withdrawn and doesn’t visit us anymore—”

Nino makes a weak protest, but in the end just has to let Aiba exhaust himself with wild theories and passionate speeches. Eventually the other man collapses, convinced he’s won Nino over to the True Love Team. Nino lets him sleep in the bed instead of on the floor, despite getting elbowed in the face a few times and having to listen to Aiba talk in his sleep.

And as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, something in what Aiba said stuck. His head is buzzing with vague, unspoken possibilities the next morning, when he finds himself back in Hashimoto’s office. Apropos of nothing, Nino looks up and takes a chance, and says:

“I have a song I’d like to put on the CD.”


	6. Part VI

So America had been a bust. 

Really, Ohno wasn’t that disappointed. He had had a lot of fun in New York, seen some really interesting places and some really wonderful artwork—it seemed like every street corner in New York City had a piece of art on it—but he was happy to be home. New York was nice, but it was noisy and crowded and confusing. So was Tokyo, if he thought about it that way, but at least the noises in Tokyo were familiar, the crowds spoke the same language as him, and any confusion he ran into could generally be solved with the GPS on his phone.

He had been so looking forward to seeing his friends again. Maybe he never told them, but the guys from the coffee shop were really the best friends he had in the city, being with them one of the only times he really felt like he fit in.

But something went wrong. He’s not sure what. Maybe Nino was mad that he didn’t get a present like everyone else. Or that Ohno didn’t call or write while he was gone. Or maybe Nino was just too busy for Ohno now.

The whole idea has put him in a funk. He hasn’t worked on any new pieces since he got back—in fact, he’s barely left the house. The only reason he’s out right now is on Saori-san’s insistence. His manager glances over at him from her seat behind the wheel of her little two-seater with concern. He doesn’t know what to tell her, though. The trip to the fishing pier was nice, but after an entire day without a single catch, he finds it’s possible to feel even worse.

“Satoshi-kun,” she begins, hesitant. “I know I might not be the right person, but…if you need to talk about something…”

Ohno shakes his head. “No. I mean, thanks, but it’s…I’ll figure it out.”

Saori’s brows crease, and she takes a breath to try again, but suddenly Ohno hears the sound of a familiar name on the radio, and leans forward with a jerk to turn up the volume.

“—new artist, Ninomiya Kazunari, from his first single. Here it is, the B-side that’s climbing the charts faster than the title track: _Oh-chan’s Song_.”

Ohno only has a moment to register surprise and delight before the music begins. A soft, plaintive acoustic guitar floats out of the speakers, and then Nino’s voice is filling the car, sounding close enough to reach out and touch. Saori, the car, the traffic beyond the frosty windows, all fade into a distant blur, because Nino is singing to him.

And it’s like all the conversations they never had since he left, it fills the empty space he wasn’t quite aware that he had inside him:

“…Hey, Oh-chan, how’s New York? I miss you. I think about you all the time…” 

Nino sings to him about loneliness, about reaching across thousands of miles of ocean to see his face. He sings about what it will be like when they’re back together, how if they’re together they can do anything, they’re invincible. It’s so unlike Nino, and yet so like him, it makes Ohno smile. 

In his head, he sees Nino singing on that street corner again. He knows in reality Nino would have sung this song in a sound studio somewhere, but the Nino in his head is the Nino he knows. It’s late November now, so Nino is bundled up in scarves and a knit cap, and fingerless gloves that still let him play his guitar. As he sings, his breath rises in a steamy column, like the words are taking form as they hit the cold air. 

And somewhere in the middle of it all, hidden in self-depreciating humor and poetic words, Nino says “Oh-chan, I love you.”

It takes a moment for Ohno to realize the song is over. Vaguely, he hears the DJ saying something else about the song, the odd name, its bizarre popularity, but his mind is already skipping ahead, his mental gears ratcheting through the connections until he realizes…

“Stop the car, please.”

Saori looks at him in surprise. “What?”

“Anywhere is fine,” he says calmly.

Still looking concerned, Saori pulls over, and before she can ask him what’s wrong, Ohno’s opening his door and climbing out of the car.

“Ohno-kun, where are you—”

“Don’t worry, I’ve just got to…” he begins, but doesn’t bother ending the sentence. He’s already shut the door and started walking back the way they came.

He’s barely gone a block before he starts to run.

***

Nino gets his first real day off about two weeks after the single release. Without setting an alarm, and without really wanting to, he wakes up at 6:30a.m. 

He sits up and stares around his room blearily. There’s something he’s supposed to be doing, he’s sure of it, his brain is pounding with the sluggish urgency he always feels when he’s running late. But it’s his day off. He’s not late for anything.

And then he realizes: once upon a time, he would have been getting ready for the morning shift at Café Ole right now. 

The thought makes him smile, even through the pang in his chest. It’s cold in his apartment, and he pulls his comforter up around his shoulders, getting ready to collapse back in bed. But for some reason, he just keeps sitting there, staring at the wall.

Half an hour later, he’s dressed in his old work clothes and shrugging into his heavy winter coat. He wears a knit cap pulled low over his eyes, and pulls his scarf up over his nose, and no one recognizes him as he makes his way along his familiar train route. Not that he’s that famous, he reminds himself sternly.

When Nino arrives at the café, Sho is just unlocking the front door, Aiba by his side, bouncing up and down in an effort to keep warm. The taller man spots him first.

“Nino!” he says in delighted surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Hey,” Nino replies, then turns to Sho. “Can I ask you a favor, boss?”

Sho raises an eyebrow, but a knowing smile starts at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah?”

“Let me work a shift?”

“Don’t you think someone might recognize you?”

“I came prepared,” Nino smirks, holding up a large hypo-allergenic face mask.

Sho tries to look disapproving, but just ends up grinning. “Well, to be honest, Mao-chan just called in sick a few minutes ago, so…you’ve got the job. Just try and keep a low profile, okay?”

Nino nods, smiling wider than he has in months. He even suffers Aiba to pound him enthusiastically on the back as they go inside.

It’s strange, because as Nino moves through his old routine—taking chairs down off of tables, making iced tea, pouring espresso beans into the machine—it’s like nothing ever changed. Like everything since the day Ohno left has been a dream, and he’s a little surprised to be so glad to find himself back in reality. It’s familiar and comforting, and he waits for the first ring of the bell over the door with suppressed anticipation.

He tries to pretend he’s just enjoying his time at the café, but all day he waits for Ohno to show up. He knows it won’t happen, tries desperately not to get his hopes up. Still, there’s a little twinge of disappointment every time the door opens and it’s a stranger.

Eventually Jun shows up, and almost doesn’t realize Nino is the one making his drink, until his name is called. For someone who’s supposed to be his friend, Jun is very rude.

“Where’s Mao-chan?”

Nino scowls at the other man, but it’s mostly hidden by his face mask. 

“Sick,” he replies. “Nice to see you, too.”

“What are you doing back here, anyway?” Jun continues, as if Nino hadn’t spoken.

“Got fired,” Nino says, deadpan. “Single wasn’t selling enough, they told me to pack my bags. Sho was nice enough to give me my old job back.”

“Yeah, right, like I haven’t heard that sappy song of yours on the radio every time I walk into any music store in town.” Despite his tone, Jun sounds proud, and gives Nino a grin. “Hoping Ohno will hear it and forgive you for being such a diva?”

Nino opens his mouth for a biting reply, but finds himself laughing instead.

“What?” Jun asks warily.

“I’m just,” Nino says through his continuing giggles, “it’s just…I never thought I would miss being abused by you.”

Jun starts to smile, slowly. “Yeah, I always knew you liked it. Well, for your sake, I hope he shows up. See you later.”

But eight hours later, Ohno hasn’t made an appearance, and while he is disappointed, Nino’s not particularly surprised. Aiba and Sho invite him along for an early dinner when their shift ends, but Nino demurs, and the other two men just smile understandingly. He stays at the café for the rest of the day, buying a drink every few hours, and a sandwich when he gets hungry. He passes the time on his DS, and wistfully practicing magic tricks.

The café closes at ten o’clock, but Nino’s still in the store after the door closes, helping Tohma and the rest of the crew clean up. Around eleven he’s waving goodbye to everyone outside the store, watching as they all disappear in different directions.

Nino sighs and leans back against the locked door. Part of him feels like he may have wasted his one and only day to goof off, but another part of him still doesn’t want to leave. If he stays here, he can keep pretending that he’s still just a barista, that when he wakes up in the morning he won’t be waking up in a world where he never has a free moment and hasn’t spoken to Ohno in months. He turns and presses his forehead against the cold glass of the door, looking into the dark café and feeling morose.

Somewhere on the deserted nighttime streets, he distantly registers the sound of running feet—probably someone trying to make the last train. But then the footsteps are coming closer, are joined by ragged panting breaths, and whoever it is jogs to a stop somewhere behind Nino.

“Am I…too late?” the stranger asks, still breathing heavily.

“Sorry, the café is closed,” Nino replies automatically, turning around with an apologetic smile. 

But the expression evaporates into open-mouthed shock when he sees Ohno standing in front of him.

The other man is bent, hands on his knees, gulping in air like he’s been running for a while. The look he’s giving Nino is questioning and a little desperate. He swallows hard and straightens up.

“Am I too late?” he says again.

“Oh-chan…” Nino’s voice is barely a whisper, his throat so tight it’s almost painful. There is so much he wants to say, to explain, to apologize for, but it’s been so long, he doesn’t know where to begin. “You…the song…”

“Yeah,” Ohno replies, unhesitating. “I heard it. The song you wrote for me.”

And then Ohno smiles, and Nino realizes he doesn’t have to apologize because he’s already been forgiven. He closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath.

“Did you like it?”

“I loved it.”

Nino is barely conscious of crossing the space between them, and suddenly they are in each other’s arms, pressing as close as they can through all their winter layers. Nino buries his face in Ohno’s neck, shivering from more than the cold. His heart races when he realizes Ohno is holding him just as tightly, nosing into his hair with a happy little sigh.

“I missed you,” Nino says, almost a whimper. “I missed you so much, but I was afraid of—of things changing, and…I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

Ohno interrupts his pitiful chant by pulling back just enough to look Nino in the face, and reaching up to cup the younger man’s cheek in his hand.

“S’okay,” he murmurs. “Just…the song. It was true, right?”

“Every word,” Nino whispers.

And then they’re kissing, in the middle of the empty street, releasing occasional puffs of steamy breath into the air as their lips meet and part again and again. After all his waiting, Nino is impatient, and quickly opens his mouth against Ohno’s, coaxing a low, pleased noise from somewhere in the older man’s throat. 

When they finally pull apart, they are both breathing hard, still refusing to break their desperate hold on each other. Nino leans his forehead against Ohno’s, searching the other man’s face.

“So…what now?” he asks. He doesn’t really want to, afraid of what the answer will be, but willing to do anything to keep this, to keep Ohno.

“Well,” Ohno says thoughtfully. “You have to start answering my phone calls, for one thing.”

Nino laughs weakly and drops his head to Ohno’s shoulder. “Okay. But I mean, are we…what are we now?”

“Together,” Ohno answers, and he makes it sound so wonderfully simple.

Nino gives him a wry smile, frames the older man’s face in his hands. “It’ll be hard, though. I’ll be busy. So will you. I don’t know if…”

Ohno frowns a little, and tightens his hold on Nino’s waist. “What about the song, Nino? You said it was true, and the song said as long as we’re together…everything’s okay. Right?”

Nino stares at Ohno for a moment, and then shakes his head in wonder. It shouldn’t be this easy. And yet…

“Right,” Nino agrees. “Come on.” Finally stepping out of Ohno’s embrace, Nino grabs the other man’s wrist and starts pulling him along down the street.

“Eh? Where are we going?”

“My house,” Nino says, giving Ohno a wicked grin over his shoulder. After a moment, Ohno’s eyes widen fractionally.

“Oh.” A lazy smile. “Okay.”

As they turn the corner on the deserted street, Ohno frees his wrist and slips his hand into Nino’s. 

It’s overwhelming, it’s unbelievable that any of this is happening, Nino thinks, when a year ago they didn’t even know each other’s names. But, looking back at Ohno’s serene smile, even Nino’s pessimistic heart is put at ease. Maybe, he thinks, everything really will be okay.

As long as they’re together.


End file.
